


Brandy Alexander

by cissues



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beverly and Will are roommates, Hannibal is a cook, M/M, Will is a bartender for some reason, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissues/pseuds/cissues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a crush on the hot European cook.  It turns out that the feeling is mutual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brandy Alexander

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS.
> 
> I have so many half-written Hannibal AUs in a sad attempt to introduce more into this fandom but they ALL COME OUT AWFUL OR DEPRESSING goddammit. This is one of the less awful ones and it still turned out like this. I'm sorry. Will is a bartender for some reason and Hannibal still eats people.

Oh no.

There he was.

Him.

The cook.

Will didn’t get a whole lot of opportunities to interact with the cooking staff at The Golden Stag (not like he was particularly miffed about this or anything), but those Friday nights at close when they would sit at a table and order drinks for an hour or two, just relaxing and laughing, Will would see him. He wasn’t particularly sure what the guy’s name was -- something with an H? Henry, maybe? -- but he was so... fascinating. He was kind of gorgeous in this weird way that caught you off guard. There was beauty in his unique features and his charming smile and his flourish that suggested nothing other than aristocracy.

Like now, as Will cleaned glasses and put away the liquor, he watched the cook tell some story, his mouth moving in this strange way that attracted your gaze to it (or maybe it was just Will’s gaze), and when he was finished, his colleagues laughed and clapped him on the shoulder and Will noticed the subtle wince at the physical contact that only someone like him would catch.

And then the cook was getting up and Will’s heart stuttered for a moment because it looked like he was going to order more drinks and yep, yes he was heading towards the bar and oh God he’s not mentally prepared for this.

Then, suddenly, the cook is at the bar, hands on the counter and charming smile on his lips and Will is just sort of standing there.  
“I’d like to order something, if I may?” The cook asks and Will tries not to be stunned by the subtle accent as he nods, hands reaching for the bottles of vodka. The cook lists off a few drinks and Will starts mixing, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on him as he works.

“What is your name? I see you working here so often and yet we have not met.” The cook says, suddenly, causing Will to spill the brandy he was pouring all over his hand.  
“Uh, I’m Will. Will Graham.” He says, pausing in his frantic clean up to offer a smile. The cook nods, amused smirk playing on his lips.  
“Hannibal Lecter.” The cook introduces, a chuckle on his voice. Wow, no wonder Will couldn’t remember his name, it was so incredibly strange. It suited the cook, however, in the weirdest way possible.

Will hands Hannibal the drinks and the cook’s fingers drag over Will’s and there is no way that was an accident. Will notices the flash of a grin as Hannibal thanks him and walks away looking smug.

Did he just get hit on by the hot cook without realizing it?

“Yeah you did.” The frankly always surprising voice of Bev pipes up from one of the stools. Will hadn’t even noticed her taking a seat. She waves her hands around and Will makes her a drink.  
“And if I were you I would stay far as fuck away from him. He gives me the heebie jeebies.” She continues, glancing over as Hannibal takes a seat and eyes Will hungrily.

“Yeah well he doesn’t give me the heebie jeebies.” Will lies and hands Bev her drink. She snorts. “Don’t blame me when you end up in his trophy room mounted on a board.” He rolls her eyes but a real fear runs through him.  
“Are we talking about creepy-hot cook?” Alana says from his side as she helps herself to rum.  
“Duh, he keeps looking at Will like he wants to sink his teeth into him.” Bev mutters and throws her drink back. Alana laughs bitterly. “Honestly, Will, I have no idea how you haven’t noticed it before.”

Will’s only response is to shrug and gesture in confusion, not really sure how to protest when Hannibal’s still watching him.

The next night is packed. It’s a Saturday evening and everyone and their mothers wants a taste of The Golden Stag’s signature venison steak. He has Bev, Alana, Jimmy, Brian, and Jack taking vodka shot breaks about every hour on the hour, looking progressively more frazzled every time. Will’s job is, admittedly, easy compared to theirs. He likes mixing drinks and listening to the stories people share with each other there. It’s a little frantic, but it’s nothing compared to the cooking or waiting staff. He stills feels lighter when it hits midnight and people start shuffling out.

Like clockwork, Bev is at his side, pestering him into his coat and out the door. She has this habit of taking control of his life that should be annoying but is mostly just relieving.

“Okay, we’re going to go home and get drunk and then you’re going to tell me about all these gooey looks you keep giving the creepy Lithuanian cook.” She murmurs, leading him into the parking garage and then they’re driving back to their shared apartment.

True to her word, Bev gets them drunk, a bottle and a half of missing liquor and three episodes of Mob Wives plus drinking game and Will feels like he’s flying. He loves alcohol and he loves drinking it and he loves drinking it with Bev.

“I want to get drunk with Hannibal.” He murmurs, head on Bev’s lap as she plays with his curls idly. “Mm, he doesn’t look like he can get drunk.” She comments. “He doesn’t look real, actually. I dunno why you think he’s so hot.”  
Will groans, palms pressing into his eyes. “I dunno either.” He gurgles, a frown cutting deep into his face. “He’s just... I dunno. He’s so pretty. I want him to lick me. I want to lick him.” He’s definitely drunk, wow.

Bev makes unsubtle retching noises that grab the attention of the dogs where they lounge on the floor. “And to think I thought you were cute.”  
Snorting dramatically, Will pulls himself up, making a face at his roommate. “You still think I’m cute.” He says accusingly. She shrugs, stretching out so that her head lands into Will’s lap this time. “I’m human, sue me.” She flips Will off just as he starts running fingers through her long hair before twisting it expertly into braids.

Their conversation is lost in an overdramatic fight between Renee and Carla.

Will falls back into a comfortable routine over the next few weeks. There’s a lull in customers and, while they usually support a full house, it isn’t hectic. It’s comfortable and smooth and Alana will take breaks to laugh and help oil the conversation between Will and the people at the bar. He’s good at making drinks, not necessarily talking to the people consuming them. Still, he makes due and is happy with what he does. After closing, the wait staff will sit at the bar and talk about weird customers, how that one guy ordered plain spaghetti with nothing on it, opting to drink the sauce on the side. They leave in a comfortable haze, but not without Will catching the prickle of eyes on him and look back to notice Hannibal staring after him, a strange look on his face.

After a while, though, Will started disintegrating again. He did that every so often. With his array of mental disorders and medications, he was bound to break down after a while. Bev would have to call in to work for him, tell them that Will was sick and would be out for a few days. His dogs would climb into bed with him warily, even they tread lightly around him.

It takes him a full week to get stable enough to stand for extended periods of time. He can mix drinks and force a smile for customers, but it’s obvious he’s not okay. It was his third day back when Hannibal approached him after close, a determined look on his weathered face.  
“Will,” He greeted curtly, cornering Will against the bar. Shuffling uncomfortably, Will avoided looking at Hannibal’s face completely, his own screwed up in an effort not to pass out or say something stupid. “Hannibal,” He responded, habit pulling his lips into a tight and fake smile.  
“You’ve been avoiding me.”

It’s true. Hannibal’s presence was consuming and in this state Will felt overwhelmed by the other man. Something about Hannibal was different. It was different than how Alana made his chest tight and Jack made his heart pang in anxiety. It was different than the warmth of Bev but it was closer. It was like that warmth turned into a fever. Will was sweating.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Been sick.” He ground out, not wanting to announce to the entire restaurant staff that he was mentally unstable. Hannibal gave Will an odd look and then suddenly an arm was around Will’s shoulders.  
“If you don’t mind, Beverly, Will and I are going to go out for a few hours. I promise to have him home by midnight.”  
Will heard Bev’s nervous chuckling but he sent her a reassuring look and he was swept away.

“I can’t imagine anywhere you would go for fun.” Will admitted, taking a strange comfort in the fact that Hannibal was still holding him close, using the cover of the cool October air as an excuse for their proximity. He could feel more than hear Hannibal’s laugh. “I just thought we could have a drink and talk. I’ve missed talking to you.”  
“We’ve really only talked once.” Will reminded him.  
Hannibal shrugged. “Is it so bad that I want to continue that conversation? You’re very intriguing, Will. You’ve had my attention for some time.”  
A shiver ran down Will’s spine and he felt hotter than usual. However, it was easier for him to focus now, easier for him to think clearly with his side against Hannibal’s, the steady puff of the man’s breath in the cool air reassuring to him.

They turn into this subtle door, the kind of thing you would miss if you weren’t looking for it. It leads to a quaint bar of sorts, people that looked like they came from the pages of books play pool or converse at the counter. Hannibal seats himself at a booth and the warmth is gone. Will sits opposite him.

“What would you like to drink?” Hannibal asks.  
“Brandy on the rocks.” Will answers without thinking about it, more curious about what Hannibal drinks.

A waiter comes over and Hannibal ends up ordering a Scotch by name and Will assumes it’s expensive by the way the waiter lifts his eyebrows briefly at the mention. When the waiter leaves, Hannibal turns his whole attention towards Will and suddenly Will is out of breath.

“We both know you haven’t been sick.” Hannibal says casually as if he didn’t particularly care. As if he hadn’t just taken Will to this fancy bar purely to talk about just that.

Will rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. “I missed a few days of medication. Fell out of schedule. It’s taken awhile for them to start working again.” He admitted, staring pointedly at Hannibal’s chin. Hannibal nodded. “So you have a medley of mental illnesses that have recently shown their ugly head and you remove yourself from people’s lives so that you don’t inconvenience them. Or, at least, what you perceive as inconveniencing them.” Hannibal didn’t sound like he was asking anything. Will lifted his eyes to find Hannibal’s that were staring out past the booth thoughtfully. This man was an enigma.  
“Will, I would like you to know that whatever is bothering you, whatever you need that you feel like will inconvenience others, I want you to bring it to me. I have had a past in psychiatrics and feel like maybe I can help. I want to help, at least.”

Will already has a psychiatrist. He’s not too fond of the man, but he gets him the pills he needs. He knows this isn’t what Hannibal is offering, but Will is having trouble separating it. “I’ll... I’ll let you know.”

The rest of the night is shared in comfortably casual conversation. He talks about his dogs, about his apartment share with Bev and how she is his rock. He slips into conversation about ex-lovers that Hannibal seems entirely too interested in and the image of Alana is less painful than it’s ever been. By the end of the night, his lips are unconsciously pulled into a smile and Hannibal has their arms linked as they walk down the road where Hannibal hails them a taxi which is shared silently, bodies flush against one another and Will feels grounded like he’s never been before.

Bev is asleep when he gets to the apartment and that’s okay because he needs some personal time to work out exactly what Hannibal is starting to mean to him. The man started out as sort of an eyecandy, something nice to look at every so often, but now it’s obvious that Hannibal is more valuable than that. He knows more about Will than Will does, eery in his ability to relate.

Will jerks off messily to the image of Hannibal’s worn face and thinks about how totally fucked he is.

The two start spending more time together and within a month they’re practically attached at the hip. It’s now commonplace for Will to slip into the kitchen every couple of hours to watch Hannibal work. Hannibal is an artist in the kitchen.

Bev complains a lot that Will is too attached to the cook. In fact, she’s on one of her tirades on their way home one night.

“He’s creepy. He called me edible today, Will. He’s flirty and old and weird and I honestly have no idea why you like him so much. He looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon, it’s unnerving.”

This is the only thing Will takes from the rant, blushing a little at the thought of Hannibal looking at him like that. “He does not. We’re just friends. He’s... helpful.”  
“He sure as shit does! Will, if you don’t think that man wants to jump your bones then you’re blind. It’s so obvious it hurts us. All of us. We have bets going on how long until he makes the first move. I bet a week. Alana thinks it’s gonna be sooner.”  
Will just snorts and rolls his eyes, not wanting to talk about this anymore.

He goes to sleep unnerved and restless.

\---

 

Will must have lost time. That is the only scenario he could think of that would explain why he was currently standing in the middle of the dining hall, lights out and coat soaked with what must be rain if the pounding against the window has anything to say about it. His feet feel raw and he looks down to see them bloody and bruised as if he’d walked here. That’s... that’s miles. That would also explain the aching in his hips and calves, why he felt like he was going to collapse.

As Will looks around, he slowly registers his surroundings. It’s definitely The Stag, the menacing rack of antlers jutting out at him confirm this. He winces and limps over to the bar, a familiar place for him. When he slides into a stool he feels warm.

The warmth quickly steels, however, when he hears a crash coming from the kitchen.

He checks his watch frantically.

It’s almost three in the morning.

No one should be here.

He shouldn’t be here.

His eyes are glued to the light coming from the kitchen door window. There’s shadows being thrown here and there, he notices the swing of an arm but no other confirmed movements from any party. The arm is clad in white, however, and he hopes with every fiber of his being that it’s just a cook staying late to practice a recipe.

Another crash.

A strangled shout.

A thud.

Will repeats over and over to himself the cook’s just fell, the cook’s just fell. He needed to sooth himself after noticing a fleck of red on the glass of the door window.

Why hasn’t he moved yet? Why is he still sitting at his bar, knuckles white as he clutches the counter? The pain in his feet start to slide up his ankles and legs and the hope that he doesn’t have an infection is in the very back of his mind.

After some coaxing from the rational part of his brain (the very small, very weak rational part of his brain) he finally rises from the bar, his coat leaving a small puddle of water in the stool. He ignores the sharp pain as his feet hit the floor.

As if on cue, the clatter of something metal hits the floor and a few seconds of Will being frozen in fear, staring at the kitchen door, it flies open.

It takes a moment for what he’s seeing to fully process. That Hannibal has blood on his face (thick, splattered, severed artery) and that he’s fixing his sleeve cuff, barely hiding the bright red stain. That Will can see the dead eyes of the bus boy, head haloed in blood and brains, as the door swings back and forth on its hinges. That Hannibal has noticed him and is staring with some subdued mixture of shock and confusion.

“What are you doing here?” The cook asks, finally, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Will can’t speak, his mouth is hanging open and he’s shrugging and gesturing vaguely but he can’t make a case. He can’t say that his condition made him lose time and that his bare feet brought him to a place he feels at home. He can’t say that he’ll stay quiet about whatever the hell went on in there. He can’t say that he feels like he’s going to throw up.

He can’t say he’s actually going to throw up. He throws up anyway, vomit pooling at his feet and all he can think is “that is fucking gross” before he passes out.

Through a haze he pulls himself slowly to the surface, feeling a bit like he’s peacefully drowning and he has trouble rationalizing why he doesn’t just let it crush him. The images of his dogs and Bev makes him surface.

“Ah, good morning, Will.”

The voice sends shivers down Will’s spine and when he looks at a window he can clearly see it’s not morning. The dark velvet of the sky is that of a late night. He was probably out for an hour.

Oh and there are the words he couldn’t say, here they come.

“I don’t know how I got to The Stag, I lost time. I do that sometimes. It feels like home there, more like home than my home feels and I guess that’s why I ended up there. I won’t say anything, by the way. I’m honestly terrified of dying despite the fact that I feel practically suicidal most of the time so I really don’t want to die and honestly that bus boy was kind of a brat so good riddance. God now I feel horrible he was just a kid. But I guess he must have done something wrong to deserve something like that. Jesus you killed him. Which is something I won’t talk about. By the way. I might vomit again.”

Hannibal is kneeling next to him with a bucket, that same suspicious look on his face. Will realizes he’s laying down and sits up quickly to puke into the bucket. Or, dry heave really. He’d already spilled his dinner on The Stag’s floor.

“I trust you, Will.” Hannibal says quietly, sliding next to Will on the bed that he just realized he’s laying on. “I trust you will not say anything. I still want to keep an eye on you because trust can be broken and you are a very broken man.”  
Will tries not to feel insulted. It’s so true it hurts. That doesn’t keep it from feeling like a stab wound.

They don’t say anything to each other for a very long time. At some point it registers that this is Hannibal’s house. This is probably Hannibal’s room, if the elegant decor and ridiculously comfy bed has anything to say about it. Will still feels like he’s contaminating a crime scene.

A weary sigh suckerpunches Will back to reality and he notices Hannibal looking at him with such pity. It makes WIll sick all over again. He notices a twitch in Hannibal’s fingers before he makes a frustrated noise and leaves the room. It takes a moment but Will realizes that Hannibal doesn’t pity Will, he pities what he didn’t do to Will. He’s disappointed that he was too weak to kill the witness to his sin. Why didn’t he kill Will?

After about an hour of mulling over what the hell happened and finally giving up, Will uses his now bandaged feet (seriously? Hannibal dressed his wounds? Will just did not understand this guy.) to quest for a door or a phone where he can call for a cab or something. He finds Hannibal in what looks like a study, books stacked so high there’s a ladder to reach the ones at the top. Hannibal has his back to the door, surveying something on a large desk. Something that looks like a clear container. As Will gets closer he notices it’s organs.

“Jesus christ.” He blurts, his stomach churning. Hannibal looks up, boredly observing as Will places a hand over his mouth and makes weird lurches with his body like he’s going to collapse or vomit again. He does neither and finally calms down enough to shoot Hannibal this disapproving glance.

“You eat them?” He asks as if it’s not obvious. There is a large tupperware container of what is clearly human organs and Will notices more containers with what look like cuts of meat and Hannibal has a stack of recipe cards like Will’s mom used to have clutched in his hand protectively.  
“God.” He murmurs, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Hannibal is standing, the recipes on the desk.

“Yes. I eat them.” He states, eyes narrowed again in a way that screams DANGER to Will. “You’ve eaten them, actually.”  
Swallowing thickly, Will wonders how many dishes Hannibal has provided the meat for. The nights he spent at the man’s house for dinner.  
“You are-- you’re fucked up.”

To his surprise, Hannibal chuckles, narrowed eyes replaced by warm crows feet and a grin. “I suppose that is one way to put it.” He amends, tipping his head to the side as if he’s considering it. Hannibal knows. It’s not normal to eat people. The knowledge brings forth memories of words, quips that Hannibal shared with his crew or the customers or with Will.  
“You look positively delectable tonight, madame.”  
“You make my mouth water, chef.”  
“I’d love to have you for dinner, Will.”

“You were going to eat me.” Will says, suddenly, not really that shocked but surprised in a way that one might be when their toast comes out burnt. So more like mildly put-off. Hannibal’s expression is conflicted and he leans against his desk as if the weight of Will’s statement pushed him there.

“I-- yes. I was going to eat you.” He says, finally, looking like he surprised himself a little. “At first. I was getting bored and you looked... expendable.”  
Again that bubbling insult prodded at Will. He ignored it because he knew what Hannibal meant. He absolutely looked expendable in the worst way possible. Unkept, no family, not much of a social life, depression evident in his movement. He would be the perfect candidate for a slaughter.

“You are not expendable, Will. I want you to know that now. I thought you were. You had the signs I looked for. It took me some time, but I know now how incredibly important you are. To everyone, to Beverly, to Alana, to Jack, of course. And to me. You are crucial. You are so significant, Will.”

Hannibal had been moving slowly closer as he said this, his words strangely tight and quick, as if Hannibal had no time to think through them well enough. As if convincing Will that he had more purpose than a good meal was terribly crucial.

Will wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He swallowed again, feeling the lump in his throat. It felt wrong being this sympathetic to someone who had brutally murdered someone under two hours ago, but he ached to comfort Hannibal, tell him that it’s okay that he considered eating Will. Will, awkward in his movement, stumbled forward and fell onto Hannibal ungracefully, wrapping his arms around him in a too-tight squeeze that Hannibal returned with surprising force. Will felt breath against his neck and pressed his face against Hannibal’s hair, eyes drifting shut, enjoying the closeness.

Despite almost ending up as the man’s meal, Will still felt a connection to Hannibal. Maybe that’s what saved him. Maybe that’s why Hannibal was going to choose him in the first place. Either way, there was something about the cook that fit with Will. It was confusing and disorientating, but Will felt good when he saw Hannibal, when he touched him. It wasn’t a safe feeling and it wasn’t a grounding feeling (like he had with Alana and Bev) but it was one that made him feel real and raw. He wasn’t some crazy sideshow act around Hannibal. He was a human being, albeit a broken one. He was an imperative aspect of Hannibal’s life now, he realized, when he felt the scrape of blunt nails through his shirt, as if the older man was trying to sink his claws and never let Will leave.

It took a moment, but the hug ended and they stepped away. Hannibal almost looked like he was going to cry, but he didn’t and in a few seconds he was composed again. He brushed out wrinkles in his shirt and cleared his throat.

“Well, that was unprofessional of me.” He murmured, looking slightly disgruntled. As if he hadn’t just murdered his co-worker. Will found himself chuckling even though the pang of guilt was heard loud and clear. “I don’t know about you but I think that’s the least of our worries right now.” He responded thoughtfully, and when he moved his gaze to Hannibal’s, locking them together, he was hit.

Maybe this was what he should have been worrying about.

Hannibal was... attracted to Will. That much was obvious. But it wasn’t a “fuck me, kiss me, touch me” sort of attraction, it was more complicated than that. The connection that Will felt, Hannibal felt it too. Tenfold. As if his very foundation was shaken when Will entered a room. As if living a life without Will in it was devastating and unfathomable. As if Will’s presence in his life was completely pivotal in Hannibal’s loose grasp on his own sanity. Hannibal didn’t just spare Will because he was important, he spared Will because Will was the center of his universe.

“Oh.” Was what he got out before he was leaning in and kissing Hannibal.

And don’t get him wrong, Will likes kissing people, he likes the bare instinct that it requires, but kissing Hannibal isn’t like kissing people. Kissing Hannibal is like kissing an idea.

Will isn’t sure how to explain it, and how to explain that it is the best thing he’s ever experienced. It’s strong and steady and Will knows exactly who he is and why when his mouth is against Hannibal’s. He feels free and light and spiritual and if this was a religion then Will would absolutely convert.

Hannibal’s hands cup his jaw and grab his hair and run nails down his neck. They stroke his back and grip his hips painfully and wonderfully. Will’s hands knead into Hannibal’s flesh like a security blanket and he gasps and sighs and explodes.

When they separate, they don’t separate. They rest their foreheads against one another and they touch. Will feels like he’s been glued to the ground until Hannibal kisses him once more and leaves. He doesn’t leave far, just to steady himself against his desk. He looks wrecked, or as wrecked as Hannibal could look and still be Hannibal. Something about it is still unnerving, almost frightening as the older man eyes him hungrily. There’s a huge chance he’s taking, not telling anyone. And who knows, he could change his mind in the future. For now, though, he feels selfish. He needs Hannibal desperately and isn’t so willing to give him up that easily. He takes the risk and hopes he isn’t wrong.


End file.
